- Body Armor – In the winter this was not a problem. It was cold and the wrap around armor helped keep me warm. Summer at Torkham, with Arizona heat and Florida humidity, was another thing. As my first summer progressed I identified the following calculus. If I wore my body armor it might save my life but I would surely die of heat prostration. So I began leaving the body armor in the MRAP with my helmet – once again only donned when VIPs visited. Yes, the soldiers had to wear their armor all the time, but they were 30-40 years younger than me! During my second summer things changed. A suicide attack the previous fall at the Customs office in Kandahar targeted the American Customs Advisors there, killing one and wounding two. A US soldier and Afghan linguist were also killed. This raised the threat level and no one had to tell me that going around without body armor was unwise. I was able to mitigate the heat effects by switching from the whole torso “wrap around” armor to a simple plate carrier that was open at the sides. It offered less protection but much better air circulation. Personal Security Details The Army went down to the border every day to secure the port. They set up a series of posts establishing a security bubble that included the Afghan Custom House. My work, however, required that I regularly visit a satellite office and truck staging yard that was outside this bubble. As I had no intention of wandering over there by myself, I always requested the Army patrol leader to provide me with a PSD (Personal Security Detail). He was usually able to do so and two soldiers would be assigned to accompany me on my rounds. This became a popular assignment when the soldiers discovered it often entailed sitting on the floor in an air conditioned office drinking chai (tea) while chatting with an array of polite and friendly Afghan Customs Officers. The Afghans were happy for the opportunity to interact with US soldiers – something their bosses did all the time but a rarity for the regular employees. Skyhawk During my second year the US Embassy provided me and all other US government civilians in the field with an individual Blue Force Tracker – known as a Skyhawk. It was about the size and heft of a 1980’s style cell phone and could be used by a control center to track my location. The device included a “911” panic button. The idea was to carry the tracker whenever outside the wire so I could be located in the event I disappeared into the countryside. Since I was always in close proximity to my US Army protectors I didn’t see much use for this, but wore it anyway because I knew the security office monitoring the big board would notice if I didn’t. Besides, it cost a lot of money! When my Afghan friends asked about the Skyhawk hanging on my belt I was honest about its purpose, but embellished just a little when explaining the “911” button. I told them if I pushed it the Navy Seals would arrive to rescue me within 15 minutes. They were duly impressed. Be a Respectful Foreign Infidel A recurring story out of Afghanistan tells of a lone Afghan policeman or soldier suddenly going berserk and killing a number of foreigners with whom he had been working. The Taliban would then claim he was one of their own who had been infiltrated for this purpose. Don’t believe it. These events are almost always the result of the Afghan version of “going postal.” An episode such as this is usually triggered when an Afghan perceives an intolerable insult that demands drastic action to restore
honor. Such an offense usually involves showing a real or perceived disrespect for Islam or Afghan women. The recent riots over the burning of the Koran are an amplified example of Afghan religious sensitivities. Their protective attitude towards women is best illustrated by the fate of an American contractor who was dating a female Afghan co-worker in Kabul. One night the police pulled him over and shot him dead. No investigation ensued. The truly disquieting part of this circumstance is that for some particularly ultra-sensitive Afghans the mere presence of a foreign infidel is enough to set them off. It was within this context that I worked at a border crossing transited daily by thousands of Afghans on their way to and from Pakistan. I interacted on a routine basis with numerous Afghan police, all of whom were armed with AK-47s. I did everything I could to avoid offending any of them. One would think it would be easy to not insult Islam - a no-brainer. I found out otherwise one day when visiting the warehouse where Customs staged small shipments for processing. It was hot and I was tired, so I sat on a carton of books while chatting with the warehouse officer. He said I should not be sitting there. I asked why and he replied, “Because the name of the Prophet might be written in one of the books.” I leapt to my feet with an anguished “Oh!” and continued our conversation without comment on the matter. He let it go. Being respectful of Afghan women is more straightforward—do not go near and do not look at them. I learned to instantly slide my gaze away and watch from the corner of my eye so I could maintain a proper distance. Also, when chatting with an Afghan, do not ask about his wife or other female relatives. This is not a topic of conversation. Finally, on the very rare occasions when I officially met an Afghan woman – such as a government official in Kabul or a female police officer – I maintained the proper decorum that applies to all Muslim women: do not shake their hand unless they offer it first; otherwise never touch them, get too close or comment on their appearance. * * * Every day in Afghanistan was a crapshoot – there was always a chance of being wounded or killed. To me, however, most dangers were remote and unlikely. Only suicide bombers ever gave me serious concerns. This was because the attack in Kandahar had targeted Customs Advisors - just like me – and most of the killed and wounded had been retired U.S. Customs officers - just like me. One morning while getting ready to go out on patrol I paused, looked in the mirror and asked myself: What the f*** are you doing here? Then I took the fear, put it in a box, stashed it away in a corner of my mind - and went out and did my job. You know about the dangers but don’t think about them. Although facing these risks and striving to be a respectful foreign infidel could be wearying, there was a flip side. This was the experience of friendship established with Afghans. I came to have many such friends with whom I spent countless hours chatting, drinking chai, engaging in repartee, and yes - working. These relationships were based on genuine mutual respect and affection feelings that continue to this day. My relationship with some of the Afghan Customs officers became so relaxed I discovered an exception to their taboo on discussing women. Although still totally silent about their wives, they were quite happy to ask about mine. In response I told them my wife was from Mexico and that the women they saw on the Bollywood shows from India were almost as beautiful as her. But they knew how old I was, did the math and expressed skepticism. So I said I would prove it by showing them a picture of her at the beach. They all gathered around eagerly as I brought up the photo on my netbook. I pointed to a tiny dark silhouette way off in the (Cont’d. on p.28)
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TOUGH LIT. VII
IDEAGEMS MAGAZINE